


Home Is Where the Heart Is

by FairyTrashMother



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Found Family, Happy Ending, M/M, Other, Well-adjusted Warlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 01:29:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyTrashMother/pseuds/FairyTrashMother
Summary: Warlock Dowling is 16 years old and completely adrift when he sees the picture of A.Z. Fell & Co. in a magazine.





	Home Is Where the Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> A million, billion thanks to captainlordauditor for making this readable and fixing my inconsistencies!

Warlock Dowling is 16 years old and completely adrift when he sees the picture of A.Z. Fell & Co. in a magazine. He is sitting in yet another waiting room while his mother begs and wheedles and offers bribes to make up for his frankly lackluster grades. She likes to explain that he’s a very smart young man, but you know how it is at this age, talking about him like he isn’t right there, pointedly ignoring them back. He is looking for opportunities to graffiti clever or rude little doodles and phrases, words to alter into mild swear words, but what stops him cold is the picture of the proprietor, standing outside his store and looking incredibly proud. It feels like he’s had all the air knocked out of him, like someone kicked him in the chest, particularly in the heart area. 

He knows better than to say anything, but he waits until his mother is standing to get into the office before he slips the whole magazine into his backpack, unspeakably afraid for reasons he can’t quite put a finger on that she might notice and ask to see it. 

He is completely checked out through the entire meeting, but not on purpose this time, which makes it worse when his mother sighs at him in the car and tells him that it’s like he’s not even trying. 

Warlock waits until they’re home and his mother is pacing the den on the phone with his father who is somewhere but he isn’t entirely sure where, before he slips off to his room with the magazine. The article laments the loss of brick and mortar book shops, and praises A.Z. Fell & Co. for being one of the last bastions of literature, standing proudly against the rising tide of screens and digital whatnots that frankly Warlock couldn’t care less about. Because he knows that man in the picture. Or at least he thinks he does. He knows that smile, those eyes, and he can almost hear the man’s voice telling him about “all God’s creatures”. But there are differences too. The nose, the hair, the outfit, the way the man carries himself. But Warlock knows those eyes. He’s not entirely sure he wants to put a name to the feeling that makes his throat feel tight and his hands shake. 

It takes another three days of thinking furiously about it before he googles A.Z. Fell & Co. He doesn’t care too much about the poor Yelp reviews, though he skims them and finds himself a little uncertain. The man he remembers was never that rude. But the face is the same. Warlock has almost convinced himself that this if a relative of the man he knew when he decides to image search the book shop. The images are mostly of the interior, of the sweeping architecture, of rows and rows of old looking books, a few more of the man. 

He searches Facebook for the man. He can’t find a page for A.Z. Fell, of even his book shop. It’s a disappointment, but also something of a relief. What could he have said? I’m reaching out on the off chance that you’re related to my childhood gardener and could put me in touch because I’m trying to track down my childhood Nanny to? To what? 

Warlock closes the search, shoves the magazine under his mattress, and puts it out of his mind. 

In the end, it’s the fireflies that tip him over the edge. Warlock is late coming home from hanging out with friends and the front lawn is lit up with them. They take his breath away, and for a moment, he aches so badly to reach out and take his Nanny’s hand one more time. It washes over him like a wave and he can’t breathe. She had loved them, told him that they looked like the stars when she was young. There didn’t seem to be many things she would say she loved, but he had always known with the absolute certainty of childhood that Nanny Ashteroth had loved fireflies and her old car and him. Until she was gone without a word and he was no longer entirely certain of anything.

In the end, it is less that he makes up his mind and more that it becomes an inevitability that he will turn around and walk to the train station, spend his parents’ money on a train ticket, and wait for a train to London to go find A.Z. Fell and ask if he might know a certain childhood gardener. 

~*~*~

Warlock Dowling stands outside A.Z. Fell and realizes that he doesn’t have a plan. On the train ride into London it had felt like a plan, but now he’s standing outside a bookshop in London at nearly one in the morning, and he’s alone and sixteen. He can’t rent a hotel room, and he suspects that even if he did convince someone to put it on his parents’ card he’d never hear the end of it. He supposes he can go find a cafe, because this is London and something will be open. But now he also suspects that he’ll lose all courage if he waits. He finally settles on taking a lap around the park that isn’t too far away. It would be harder to lose courage if he was moving. 

He manages to turn around and make it down two steps before his knees nearly buckle. Sitting across the street, gleaming subtly in the light of the street lamps is a black antique Bentley. It looks just as it did when he saw it last. Warlock crosses the street and peers through the window, not sure what he expects to see. The leather seats were the same, but the car was empty. It usually was, Nanny loved to keep the car tidy. He remembers how he used to beg for rides in it, and how she’d stare at him from behind her glasses for a long moment before deciding that if he kept his shoes off of the seats that yes, she could take him for a drive. He remembers the absolute joy of zipping through those country roads at wild speeds, laughing wildly as Nanny pretended she wasn’t having just as much fun. 

He remembers the night of the Very Bad Fight, where doors and pottery slammed and his parents said things that he didn’t understand then and couldn’t forget now, at volumes that it was impossible for him not to hear. He remembers crying in the dark in his bed, and Nanny appearing suddenly to scoop him out of bed, still in his pajamas and blanket to go on a car ride in the middle of the night. It had been too cold to sit out in the grass, but she had bundled him up and sat him on her lap as they looked at the stars through the windshield, and she had told him all of their names as he finally drifted to sleep. He had woken up the next morning in his own bed, wrapped up, and safe, and not a single adult had ever brought up that night again. 

“Oi you! Get your smudgy face off my windows!” 

Warlock steps back and frowns at the two men coming up the sidewalk. He’s prepared to snap back and say something rude when he realizes that one of the men is the man from the photo. The other man is taller and thinner, and he sways like he’s walking a catwalk as he moves to rub imaginary spots off of the window with his sleeve. 

“Bloody kids today” the tall man mumbles and Warlock really wants to say something ratty. But the man turns, and the wrinkles of frustration on his face melt and all at once he looks surprised and sad and something else that feels too big to handle, and all at once Warlock finds himself pulled into a hug that is so terribly and vastly familiar that he’s crying before he realizes it.

Time gets a little fuzzy for him then, and he is only dimly aware of Nanny and the other man, who he now realizes is actually very much his old gardener have a terse, whispered conversation about kidnapping laws and whether they should call his parents before Nanny seems to get the upper hand and he gets ushered inside and up some stairs to a flat above the book store. Nanny sat next to him at a small but stylish kitchen table, while Nanny rubs his back and Brother Francis makes everyone tea. 

Eventually the tears slow and stop, and there’s a mug of tea pushed into his hands while Nanny gazes at him with that soft, concerned look through her glasses. He half expects a scolding, for coming here, for not planning better, for crying, but instead Nanny reaches out and gently runs a thumb across his cheek. “You didn’t bring pajamas, did you, dear?”, Nanny asks as though he knows. Warlock sniffs and shakes his head. “Well you can borrow some, it’s very late. Have you eaten?” Warlock nods. He’d eaten hours ago, but he wasn’t hungry and didn’t think he could keep anything other than tea down. He was, he realized, incredibly tired. 

“I’ll go grab some”, Brother Francis says softly, at the same time Nanny says, “Could you-?” and they smile so softly. Nanny adds “Not one of your nightgowns, Angel, a proper pair of pajamas from my side of the dresser.”

Nanny stands and holds out his hand to Warlock. “Come on then, let’s get you to bed.”

Warlock reaches by instinct and he suddenly feels so small again, and so safe as he follows his Nanny to a small spare bedroom where he takes his jacket and shoes, and Brother Francis brings him a pair of soft pajamas that very nearly fit. 

He feels incredibly small and foolish. It had felt so momentous to come, like it would end in confrontation when he found Nanny off somewhere, having abandoned him, even when a smaller, more childish part hoped he would find his Nanny cruelly sent away and missing him like he missed her and they would be reunited. Instead there was just this. The terribly mundane knowledge that he was a child, trying to hold adults accountable living their own lives independently of him. Of course Nanny had made him feel like the universe revolved around him. And of course Nanny had left. Of course they had both left. They had lives to live. 

He’s just sliding into bed when he hears a tap at the door. 

“Yeah”, he calls, and Nanny pokes his head in. 

“You’ve been a bit old for tucking in for a while now, but I thought I’d come and see if you wanted anything before we said goodnight.”

Warlock arranges the blankets very carefully and considers. “I. I guess. I was wondering?” Nanny raises his eyebrows and wait patiently for Warlock to gather his words, and Warlock is incredibly grateful all at once, for all the small ways Nanny knows him. “Well you’re not ‘Nanny’ anymore. Or. Ashteroth? I can’t call you that? I think I just. What can I call you?”

Nanny hums and slowly enters the room to sit on the foot of the bed. “Well. Nanny is a title and I don’t have that one anymore. And Ashteroth doesn’t do it anymore. I go by Crowley now, mostly. And ah. Brother Francis, he goes by Aziraphale, or Zira, if that’s too much.”

Warlock nods silently. He’s not really sure what to say to that. Nan-Crowley reaches out tentatively to lay his hand on Warlock’s blanket covered ankles. “Darling, I know your parents don’t know you’re here, and you have to know that you’re welcome here, but. You know we have to call them, don’t you?”

Warlock nods, too tired to muster false courage and say something defiant. He knows it wouldn’t work,anyway. Not on Crowley, who not only knows every trick in the book, but wrote a few himself too. Crowley hesitates for a moment, seeming to struggle with something, before patting Warlock brusquely on his ankle and standing. “Right well. Goodnight, darling. We’re right down the hall if you need anything.”

~*~*~

Warlock wakes, some time in the night, to the sound of voices. Someone is crying. He’s used to this from his parents, but this feels different. Slowly, careful not to make noise, Warlock slips out of bed and sneaks the door open.

“It’s not fair. And you remember what they were like. I know we weren’t the model parents, but we were better than that.”

“Oh my sweet, I know.” 

“Its not fair. And I worry about him. He’s a good boy, a normal boy, but-“

“Hush, darling, you’ll wake him.”

Warlock holds his breath as Crowley gets himself under control. He grips the doorframe and leans out into the hallway to hear better. 

“I just worry”, Crowley says, struggling pitifully for evenness, “That we raised him to be a leader of armies, but we never taught him how to be a little boy. I worry we never let him be a child. Adam got that. Gets that. Did we rob him of that?”

He hears what might a sigh, and the creak of a chair. “Neither of us were children, so I’m not sure I can really say. But he turned out to be a normal child, and that’s what we were aiming for. He’s happy- or, well. If he’s turning up here in the middle of the night maybe not, but he’s not getting into any real trouble, he’s not any better or worse than anybody else on the planet. He’s healthy and all in one piece.” Another pause, then, carefully, “I know that you check in on him. I know that you’ve been sneaking up there to check, please don’t pretend that you don’t. I’ve known you too long, and pretend all you like, you’re been watching over him. I don’t think anyone can do much more than that.”

“It’s not a tender thing, it’s pragmatic”, he hears Crowley say, in a pathetic, squashy way someone might protest while also leaning into an embrace. 

“Of course”, Aziraphale says kindly, but also clearly not buying it. “He’s a good boy, and a little bit of an asshole, but so are we. Just enough of an asshole to be worth knowing, eh?” A pause. “But think of this. Why would he come here if he hated you, hm?”

He can’t hear the rest, and he isn’t sure he wants to. He closes the door carefully and slinks back to bed. A little while later he hears them head to bed too, and one of them pauses for a moment outside his door, before moving down the hall. 

He thinks it will be impossible to fall back asleep while his mind buzzes with all of this new information, but then he’s waking up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sounds of the city under his window, and the flat smells like pancakes. It takes Warlock a moment to do an assessment. He knows where he is, and he remembers what he heard the night before, and the conclusions he had come to before he’d fallen asleep. 

No, the truth wasn’t always as dramatic as he’d thought. And no, the whole universe didn’t revolve around him. He hadn’t driven his Nanny away with bad behavior like his parents had implied so many times. He’d just grown up enough that Crowley felt comfortable stepping back and living his own life. With Br-with Aziraphale, in a warm little flat full of art and books and plants above an old book shop in London. Warlock threw back the covers and made his way to the kitchen. 

Aziraphale is at the stove flipping pancakes that smell wonderful but look incredibly lumpy. He is dressed for work, but with his jacket hung on the back of a chair, a dishtowel over his shoulder, and his shirt sleeves rolled up. Crowley is slumped over a cup of coffee in black pajamas and a black bathrobe, lost in thought. It looks. Comfortable. It isn’t like what Warlock saw love depicted as on tv, but it is immediately recognizable nonetheless. 

Aziraphale glances up from the pan and smiles broadly. “Young Master Warlock!” he boomed.

Crowley startles slightly and wrinkles his nose up. “Oh for he- for someone’s sake, Angel, he’s across the kitchen, not across an estate!” 

Aziraphale looks thoroughly unapologetic as he starts plating pancakes. “Of course, dear. Now, dig in, there’s all manner of toppings and syrups and whatnots.”

“Whatnots”, Crowley mutters, but he reaches for the marmalade anyway. 

“Thank you, A-uh-Zira.” Warlock winces, but he gets a broad smile and the serving tray anyway. 

“Of course, dear. So! Any big plans for today?”

Warlock hesitates here, because he honestly hadn’t thought that far in advance. Crowley comes to his rescue, though. “I spoke with your mother this morning. She said that you could stay with us today for a bit and I could drive you back, as long as you’re home for dinner. And I was thinking about that. What was that exhibit you were banging on about or-“

Aziraphale’s face lights up with a blinding delight that Warlock was certain he had been misremembering. “The one with the illuminated manuscripts? Have you ever tried it? Such an art!”

Warlock eats as he watches Aziraphale ramble and Crowley fight to hide a smile as his eyebrows climb ever higher. Warlock realizes, suddenly, that he’d very much like to be the sort of person who could be looked at like that one day. 

The exhibit is. Not boring. But it doesn’t capture him the way it does Aziraphale. Fortunately, Crowley doesn’t seem as engrossed either, and they follow a few paces behind looking at the pictures, nodding occasionally as Aziraphale finds something interesting to tell them about. Mostly they chat. Crowley asks about school, about life, about his friends. Warlock doesn’t let on that he knows that Crowley has been checking on him and probably knows some of this already. It feels good. It feels strangely normal, like falling back into a routine, for all they’ve never done this exact thing. They absolutely do not talk about Warlock running away from home, or showing up on their doorstep in the middle of the night. 

It does, however, come up at lunch. Not on purpose. But Aziraphale is talking about how important words are, about the importance of books and speeches, and it just bubbles out. “My dad wants me to go into politics.” Aziraphale pauses and makes a small “Ah” sound. Crowley sips his drink. They both wait for him to complete that thought. “I don’t want to.”

Crowley nods slowly. “That’s a pretty good reason not to do it then. So. What do you want to do?”

Warlock slumps into his chair, straightening again when Crowley frowns at him. Crowley was always on him about how Little Princes of Darkness should sit up straight to look more commanding and not strain their necks. “I’m not sure? But I want to do something I like, and I hate politics and I’m not great with words, or saying the right thing.”

“Well,” Aziraphale offers, “I recall you liking science, when you were younger. Perhaps something like that?”

Warlock worries at his napkin. “I don’t know and I just. I don’t want to pick now? But they say I have to or I won’t ever make it anywhere in life.”

Crowley leans in and he looks like he’s about to say something very sharp, but Aziraphale lays a hand over his on the table and Crowley closes his mouth and sits back. Aziraphale gives Warlock a small smile. “Warlock, my dear, you have plenty of time left to make choices and figure out what you’d like to do with yourself. You don’t need a plan today. And the next plan you do make won’t be the only one, you won’t be bound to it. You can change your mind. You have free will, and you can do what you like, be who you want. The possibilities are endless, my dear. That’s the beauty of being human.”

It is perhaps the most reassuring thing anyone has said to him since he was little and afraid of the dark and Crowly had sat on the edge of the bed and told him with absolute certainty that nothing would harm the Prince of Darkness, and that he should walk confidently in the night knowing that he was the fiercest one there. 

The day flies, and all too soon they are back on the street with the Bently. They all climb in, with Warlock in the back. Crowley drives at a normal pace, for once, and Warlock misses the thrill of zipping around curves, but he get it. Crowley is dragging his feet, only doing the speed limit. It still feels like they’re back at the estate too soon. 

They sit in the car for a long moment, all quiet, all contemplating the right thing to do next. Crowley drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Summer is coming up. And if you need something. Impressive. For applications. Summer internships always look impressive, and. Well if you’d like.”

Aziraphale turns in his seat. “He’s inviting you to stay the summer with us and help me around the shop. You never know what you’ll find in a book shop. Maybe you’ll fall in love with a subject. Or maybe you’ll narrow down the ones you don’t like.” 

“And of course we wouldn’t ask you to commute every day. We do have that spare bedroom.”

Warlock smiles, and for the first time in a long time he feels like he has a plan. “Yeah I’d like that.”

“Besides”, Aziraphale says as they all pile out of the car and hug each other goodbye, “I write a pretty glowing letter of recommendation, if I do say so myself.” 

Warlock nods. “Mom still says it’ll take a miracle for me to get in anywhere good.”

Crowley reaches out and smooths Warlock’s hair out of his face. “I think we can manage one or two. For you.”

**Author's Note:**

> He takes the summer "internship" with them. He realizes that he loves the stars too, and gets really into physics. The first time he tells them that he wants to understand the language of the universe and learn what made the stars shine like that Crowley bursts into tears.


End file.
